Mixed Signals
by LoveShapedLightbulb
Summary: Wilson is trying to settle into his new home, but an intruder hinders the process. Set around the second or third episode of this season, prior to the make-up. One shot. Slash-ish, House/Wilson.


_**A/N: **Just a quick little thing, written in a very short period of time. Prior to the make-up (which made me happy to the point of tears!), just my mind running rampant on caffeine again!_

_**Warnings: **Man love, aka Slash; nothing too explicit, but it's there. If you don't like, LEAVE NOW. Don't say I didn't warn you! Mild violence._

_I might have messed up the layout of Wilson's place, or the time frame... but we'll just call it artistic license._

_Enjoy! Please read and review, if you feel so inclined. Keep that criticism constructive!_

* * *

James flipped aimlessly through the stations on his TV, his eyes trained blindly on the middle of the screen. Sports, news, infomercials, history programs; nothing could catch his attention this evening. He hit the static of channel 99, and watched as the numbers shrank all the way back to 2. He hadn't been in his new place for a long time- everything was still boxed, packed, throw together precariously without any recognizable organization. Everything was still waiting for their new home.

Wilson couldn't say he didn't feel the same way. He sighed, pressing the power button on the remote and listening to the satisfying death of power to the set. The clicker was tossed to the side, and the oncologist sat back on the couch, limp and spead eagled on the still-new cushions, listening for the noises of the night. Nights were quiet now; now that he was alone. He let his eyes close drowsily, knowing there was nothing to keep him from sleep. His life was plain, dull, boring. His heart beat slowed into a resting rhythm, and loneliness wrapped its arms around him in a familiar embrace, and he could not even bring himself to move to his bed. His head nodded, and he dragged himself so he was lying along the length of the sofa. His head settled on the stiff decorative pillow he wasn't supposed to sleep on, and he felt his familiar friend settle in with him. He let his eyes slip closed again, dreams calling to him like some fragrant, far off perfume on the edge of his senses...

A harsh knock shattered his solitude. James sat up, listening, hoping that he had imagined the noise.

It resounded again, more firm and demanding than before. The doctor sighed, running a heavy hand over the back of his head, and growled in acknowledgement. He shuffled toward the door, kicking boxes out of the way, and peered through the peephole.

There was no one there.

Befuddled, he unlocked the door and pulled it open to look up and down the hall.

He didn't get the chance. As he turned to the left, he felt a body ram into him, pushing him backwards into his apartment. His breath knocked out of him, he stumbled back, blinded by the impact. The door slammed shut, and he felt a wall behind his back as his hands were pinned above his head. He heard the wheeze of labored breathing, felt the warmth break on his skin. His eyes were still blank slides, completely useless, but his nose was working fine. He caught a whiff of his assailant: a familiar scent, overwhelmingly soap and unadorned by cologne of any kind. He didn't need his eyes to know who had him trapped.

"I thought you said you would slam the door in my face next time I showed up here," House growled, wobbling as he tried to balance himself. James didn't even want to know how the cripple had managed to capture him.

"Didn't exactly know who was playing ding-dong-ditch at my doorstep," Wilson muttered. His vision faded back to normal, leaving spots dancing in the place of a white wall.

His ex-best-friend chuckled deliberately, but it was not his signature, sarcastic spat of laughter. He sounded dark, bitter, angry. Wilson knew very well that he needed only throw his weight forward, and the other doctor would go flying; with both hands holding his own above his head, and only one leg able to support him, House shouldn't have been able to hold him for this long. But, while he might deny it, his need to protect House and his fear of hurting him still lingered. He huffed in frustration, shaking his head.

"What's wrong, Jimmy," House drawled, pressing closer, "does being this close to me disgust you? Why haven't you thrown me out yet? You know you can. I can see it in those pretty brown eyes of yours."

Wilson hissed as the other man's hands crushed tighter around his wrists, but did not make a move to dislodge him. The older man smirked, and leaned even closer, until their faces were almost touching.

"Don't think you can get rid of me so easily, Jimmy," he breathed, and Wilson writhed at the feel of warm breath breaking over his face. His nerves were fraying fast, and it was all he could do to not pitch himself forward. Instead, he leaned in just those few minute spaces and closed the space between his own mouth and the diagnostician's.

They kissed angrily, fighting for dominance over the other, teeth clashing, breath catching in pain as they struggled. Wilson pulled back, huffing again. House gazed at his ex-best-friend, and his anger was replaced with a deep, longing sadness. His blue eyes softened, his grip loosened, and he leaned away from the other man, shame creeping into his face.

"What are we doing?" He murmured, his head drooping like a wilting flower, and Wilson's heart ached... but he shoved the feeling away, back in its securely locked box within him, unwilling to let House draw him back in with his kicked-puppy act. He had to believe it was an act; otherwise, he would go insane.

"House... let me go," he whispered gently, moving his wrists beneath his captor's hands, and the man let his hands slip to either side of the oncologist's head. Still on edge, Wilson dropped his arms to his chest, wrapping them there protectively. His mind wandered as he pondered over what might happen next, when a sniff reached his ears. He was startled back into reality, and he came rushing back to his body.

"Just tell me, James," House's low voice grated on his ears, riddling his mind with seeds of guilt and doubt, "Tell me you never want to see me again. Tell me all our years as friends means nothing to you. Tell me you will kill me if I ever pull a stunt like this again. And then... I'll..." the man's voice dropped off, fading as if he were already walking away. Wilson thought his ears might bleed; the sound of the other man's sorrow, so deep and profound, was torturous to him. He panicked- his instincts kicked in, old habits forcing their way to the surface.

Wilson wrapped his arms around House's waist, drawing his larger body close to his own, easing his burden of standing. He leaned thankfully, helpless to stop himself from sinking into the waiting arms. He nuzzled James' shoulder, his neck, embarrassed at the affection his apparent lost friend was showing him, but happy for it nonetheless.

He could not help a gasp of surprise as soft warm lips grazed his stubbled cheek, and his head jerked back reflexively. The lips found their mark, capturing his own in a tender kiss, caressing away, assuaging his fears, his grief. House braced himself, hand planted on either side of Wilson's head.

The kiss ended slowly, drawn out for long moments. When he finally pulled away his swollen lips, Wilson heard the diagnostician's breathy moan. He smiled, a sad and empty expression, and righted House, holding him up as he handed him his cane. The other doctor was quiet as James walked him to the door. Once it was opened, they both stood, awkwardly shifting their weight from foot to foot, unsure. They both looked up at each other, questioning gazes lingering on confused faces. Wilson nodded to the hallway.

"I'm not going to give up, you know. I still don't know what no means. Although, I'm not sure that was..."

Wilson held up his hand, a wry smile crossing his lips for a split second.

"Goodbye, House."

House returned the smirk. "Be good, Jimmy."

And off he ambled, down the street to where Wilson was sure he had parked his bike. He shook his head, unable to keep the amusement from showing on his features. He shut the door with a quiet _click_, and turned back to his apartment. He sat down on the couch, flipping back on the mesmerizing television, unwilling to let himself fall asleep. He was afraid of what dreams might haunt him.

* * *

_Well, that was fun. Thanks for reading!_


End file.
